Young Writers Society

Prologue – January 17th 2035

The problem arose when they infiltrated the fundamental systems of society. Law enforcement, banking, judicial structures and even global conglomerates were compromised by the devious and diligent planning of what we call 'zombies.' Now before your mind jumps to the misconstrued image of a zombie that the media presented as comical and fictitious in the past, allow me to describe the outbreak that is really occurring.

No one is sure how it began - or perhaps it had no beginning - but the spread of the zombie disease was particularly worsened by their hunger for flesh. They would seek flesh actively as if it was their day job - which it wasn’t as the majority of these things worked in finance or high end government structures. They ate humans just as their predecessors did, although in a much more 'professional,' manner. I'm not speaking in rhetoric or riddle to emphasize how evil their character is, I'm literally telling you that they are the type to indoctrinate our society, steal a child off of the street, and plan an entire evening dinner around the idea of eating your child's torso as if it were Thanksgiving, just another piece of meat to stuff.

The difference between what we face now and the fictional zombies of the past is that the zombies of our society are living thinking creatures that know how to use a fork and knife. Now, it would a mistake to label them as simply cannibals because they're still dead, and and diseased. They're dead in the way that they have no consciousness, and no morals or ethics; yet they’re alive in the way that they are still breathing. They don’t have a soul or anything human – aside from their physical anatomy – about them aside from primal urges for food and even sex. It’s disturbing to even consider these things “alive,” and I have a philosophical inclination to believe the contrary.

Hopefully you understand the severity of such a problem, and the paranoia that comes about as a result. How would you know who was, and wasn’t infected if the diseased look exactly like you down to even a molecular level? The simple answer - and the potentially only answer - is that you don’t. The sickness of such a collective cannot be cured or prevented and once an infected labels you as a target, they’ll manipulate you, use you, eat you, and birth you in a diseased and reanimated state. I feel ambivalent in having to describe how exactly a “zombie,” is able to give birth, however in the world we live there is no room for those faint of heart anymore.

After completely ingesting every part of a person one of the diseased will literally vomit out an assembled, fully packaged version of the victim whom they lined their intestines with – the difference being the “new and improved,” version of the victim is now another mindless, cunning and heartless zombie ready to manipulate just about anybody to satisfy their dinner reservations.

So you become one of them, and no one will know what you’ve turned into.

An acquaintance – or perhaps not even that - of mine was eighteen when he and I realized that this outbreak even existed. We had been hearing news in foreign countries about citizens “eating,” each other, yet the government covered up such incidents by blaming drugs, and psychopathology. No one thought too much about such occurrences, especially when they didn’t affect us. One day they did.

Samuel was a challenging piece of shit, but he didn’t deserve being ruthlessly eaten by his own mother. Who also proceeded to savagely butcher her forsaken husband. Their kid didn't even get to escape as Mrs. Greyan - or Ms. Greyan now - fired a twelve gauage into his chest. The poor child bled out at what I presume was a last supper of sorts. Don’t worry though, I’m sure he’s been reanimated, it’s not like zombies were the type to waste good food.

This all happened while I was at the dinner table, I realized Ms. Greyan’s meaning of “soup of the day,” was slightly different than us non-infected. I suppose I was saved for desert as I was last on the priority list - Ms. Greyan always had a sweet spot for me in more than a few ways - but unfortunately I managed to escape. I never heard from Ms. Greyan again, which genuinely surprised me as she was a woman who loved her seconds.

In no way am I attempting to intimidate you, I'm merely trying to describe what life and society has devolved into. These infected people - if you can even call them that - are ruining our society and the lives of billions, however with the power they hold in social systems the survival of our now dystopian civilization hinges on their existence. The proverbial double edged sword.

This journal, if you will, is intended to act as a guide of sorts. A compilation of my experiences in such a fucked up world. This journal is intended to inform those who follow me – as I presume I won’t be around much longer – of the dangers of the world, that most people aren’t even aware of. God save us all.

Part One – February 20th, 1995

Samuel pulled up in his distastefully red sedan, and motioned through the open door that I was to enter the car. I was being summoned. The rain pattered against my shoulders despite the sad excuse of an umbrella I held over my head. I stood for a moment staring at him as if I wanted to attract attention, to indicate to people I had no idea who this bum was. Normally I’d disobey such a condescending action just for disobedience sake, and to assert I wasn’t one to be commanded, however His Majesty was my only way home. As well as the fact I had already been avoiding his entire family for the past month or so (on the account of an incident that happened, which I’m almost sure was illegal). I entered.

The inside of Samuel’s car reeked of cigarettes, and a persistently lingering smell which I attributed to Samuel’s drinking problem.

I looked over at him, expecting him to look back and submit the power he thought he had in our relationship. He didn’t.

His face was covered in an abnormal amount of stubble for an eighteen year old. Being only a year younger than him – physically that is - I probably made him look even older by simply sitting beside him.

He spoke in a thick Southern accent that would make me think he was an idiot even if I didn’t know him – if I was racist that is, but I wasn’t.

“Hey fella,” he said to me without even a glance, “whatcha plans for tonight?”

I paused for a moment, puzzled by the mere assumption that I would even have plans.

“Nothing.”

“Spose you wouldn’t wanna come over for dinner tonight then would ya?”

Even more confused than before I began “Samuel, what’s the occasion for such an invitation?”

“Nothin’ really. The Old Lady has been buggin’ at me askin’ why you ain’t been ‘round since last month. She thinkin’ you hate her or summin.”

I blushed, and if it wasn’t for Samuel’s lack of caring for anybody but himself he would’ve looked over at me and noticed. Thank god he didn’t or I’d have a lot of explaining to do.

“What about your Dad, has he said anything about me?”

“Pops? He ain’t much for talkin’ bout my friends, so not really. But he did said you a wannabe highbrow a while ago.”

If things hadn’t of been how they were, I would’ve ripped that hick’s head off.

“Fine, I’ll come.”

The rest of the car ride to Samuel’s was pleasantly quiet. The fact he didn’t feel the need to suffocate the silence with small talk was refreshing, like a heroin addict relapsing. Every time Samuel opened his mouth I could consciously feel my intelligence being questioned.

I’ve never been close to Samuel - or anyone for that matter – but I decided I’d get a good meal in me for once and on we went along the dark countryside road that circled his family farm.

It seemed as if the rain fell harder, and harder for every stride the car took towards the farm. Correspondingly the car also seemed to go faster and faster as if it longed for the rest it deserved; like a marathon runner sprinting towards the finish line. The bumpy unfinished road jolted and jerked the car continuously; just as Samuel began to hum what I presume was his rendition of a country song.

I wasn’t sure if it was because he was too drunk to notice or if he was used to the danger of such an old car’s suspension.

I knew we were close now as I began to see the Greyan family’s cows grazing on the soggy pasture. The silhouette of their crude figures were barely recognizable in the pitch dark of the winter season. If it wasn’t for their familiar hedonistic positions - their necks craned down to the pasture - I wouldn’t have even noticed them.

They paid no attention to the rain slamming down on them, however. For a second I wondered if it was because they were too stupid to realize what rain was or if they were so happy to exist that a slight inconvenience such as being wet paid them no bother. Regardless of the reason I envied them. Having no care for anything, anyone, or any situation seemed superlative to me. But as a human being you’re naturally condemned not to mortality itself, but instead to the knowledge of mortality. Knowing you’re going to die changes a person. When you informed that terminally ill cancer patient that they’re going to die, you encouraged them to gear up and shoot up a school.

Maybe the cows did know that they were going to die, and if so I truly pitied them just the same as I did mankind, however I preferred – and needed – to believe that they were blissfully ignorant of the world inevitable fatality. Something had to be.

I began to drift off, however like usual my peace was interrupted by Samuel poking me with what I believed to be a lighter.

“Hey!” he yelled “wake up Sleepin’ Beauty we’re here!”

I wasn’t surprised that the extent of his referencing ability was restricted to Disney productions.

“I wasn’t sleeping.”

I sprung out of the car with a slight over enthusiasm to ensure Samuel knew I wasn’t sleeping, he wasn’t allowed to be right.

My feet sank into the muddy grass, which was mush by this point – reminding me that I was nowhere near civilization. The Greyan Family farm was quite large, but seemed small to the non-mathematical eye as the majority of the area was either desolate or unconstructed and grassy. I’d been to the Farm a couple of times to see Mrs. Greyan, who up until a month ago was probably the person I hated the least in the world.

I knew the layout of the land, and so without any further encouragement from His Majesty I began to make my way to the main house.

I heard him behind me, “so you hungry?”

Of course I was hungry; I hadn’t accepted this embarrassing invitation to sight-see after all.

“I had a big lavish lunch so not particularly,” I said loudly.

I hadn’t eaten a full course meal ever since my parents kicked me out on the account of “bad behaviour,” but if you had asked me I was just being me.

My stomach was practically in knots now, and I was truly surprised hydrochloric acid hadn’t begun to gnaw it’s way out of the captivity of my stomach.

I was reassured that the whole invitation wasn’t a mirage or demonic trick being played on me when I opened the house door, and smelled what seemed to be a meat of some kind. I was greeted by the farm dog who always seemed to be the first patron to see in any new visitors. He whined and wagged his tail as he began to circle around me, surely getting ready to make his move of affection.

“Will!”

I recognized Mrs. Greyan’s familiar voice echoing down the stairway, with a distinct cheeriness that was foreign to me to even hear. I heard her delicate footsteps pattering against the upstairs hallway carpet as I began to take off my shoes – which were absolutely atrocious by this point, and not particularly as a result of the rain fall either.

Soon her petite figure emerged from the cover of the staircase, and I couldn’t help but ponder for a moment why she was with a man like Mr. Greyan – although the lack of resemblance between her and Samuel was understandable as he was adopted.

Mrs. Greyan – or Theresa if you wanted to get friendly – was a tiny brown haired creature that looked odd at first sight. She seemed too fragile, as if she would keel over and spontaneously combust at any second. Everything about her was small, except for her green eyes - which seemed to engulf your entire existence when she peered at you – and her naturally red lips that made one think she had something injected into them for such effect. On paper her description seemed awkward – which it may have been - however in person she was beautiful and feminine.

Mr. Greyan on the other hand was built as crudely as one can imagine. A shaved head complimented by an uncanny amount of stubble – even moreso than Samuel - that made his white face look more black than anything else. His stocky legs, bulky arms and a crooked nose all indicated to the amount of bar fights his drunken ass had been in. He wasn’t a good person, but he was built like an ox so getting on his bad side seemed like a slightly dangerous road to venture down.

I wondered where he was for a moment.

“Will how have you been sweetie?” Theresa ran over to me and embraced me – a feeble attempt at that considering how short she was.

“How is school going?”

I had attended an all boy’s private school in the Eastern end of Toronto. Apparently it was prestigious, but more than anything I thought it was pretentious. Like usual I would keep to myself, but there were a few students that seemed to enjoy bothering me, much like Samuel but more aggressively. They would make fun of my size, my voice, my family – or lack thereof – and even my name. If you asked me, what I did was not nearly as intrusive as those imbecile’s sad attempt to “bully,” me. However in the eyes of the School Board spiking someone’s drink with Ketamine is an illegal act subject to immediate expulsion, and further legal trial. Fortunately Mrs. Greyan spoke to the dean of the school “convincing,” him I was a “good,” kid who didn’t know how to control his emotions sometimes. I still got expelled, but I wasn’t legally charged for anything.

To top everything off Samuel still attended the school, and even though my grade point was near perfect – and his was near failing – he still had out done me, or at least tried to do. He never seemed to let me forget that either, be it through his snide commentary on my lack of education or his even more blatant attempts, such as keeping me updated with the politics and inner workings of the school –as if I cared.

“Will? I asked how school was going. You’re at Blasworth now right?”

“Yes. Mrs. Greyan it’s going fine.” I lied.

I never re-enrolled in school, because it was quite obvious I didn’t need an education (not to mention the fact my parents refused to pay a tuition after the Ketamine, and the other incident with Mrs. Greyan). In my eyes there was a distinction between knowledge and natural born intelligence. People born with no intelligence need to obtain knowledge as a form of compensation whereas intelligent people don’t – although there are those that are intelligent but still seek higher education and knowledge to prove their self-worth. My IQ was a hundred and ninety-four. I didn’t need education or any self-verification.

Samuel stumbled in through the front door about five minutes after I did. He was clearly drunk, he must have helped himself to the complimentary alcohol bar in his trunk. As he began to “take off his shoes,” Mrs. Greyan and I did stood in silence observing him like a wild animal. Similarly to a wild animal he finally perked his head up and realized his mother’s penetrating stare.

“I wasn’ drinkin’ and drivin’ Ma. Ask Will even, tell ‘er.”

He looked at me for confirmation, and I shook my head. It seemed Samuel could only look at me when he needed something.

“Sammy I believe you. You’re too smart to do that after what happened to your Father.”

“Speakin’ of Pops, I’mma go see him now.”

Samuel raced upstairs, and ambivalently I followed closely – but not too closely – behind, but not before giving Theresa a questionably inappropriate look.

Samuel opened the wooden door slowly, as if he was deciding whether to enter or not – a complete contrast to the enthusiasm he showed just moments before. He turned the loose knob, and with a cliché creek of the hinges the door beckoned us forward allowing us entrance into the dark room. I heard the shallow breathing of Mr. Greyan, and I had to remind myself to stay calm.

The room was completely dark like a closet, except for the fact it was about the size of a prison cell. Quite the comedic relief I thought.

“Pops. Will came to see you.”

I turned on the light, and even though I knew what to expect I was still disturbed. Mr. Greyan was lying comatose on a mattress with his arms folded onto his chest like an angel or divine creature of some kind. This idea was the most disturbing of all to me; I played a significant role in facilitating this bodily transcendence. I had the ability to give and take life.

His shallow breath still smelled of bourbon, an indication either to the flavour of toothpaste he used, or a testament to how much the man loved his drink. If I was a betting man I’d put my money on the latter.

I followed Samuel in sitting down – very gently – on the hard edge of the mattress, and I stared for some time at him, amazed how incapacitated a body can be – yet still be alive. Alive. He was still alive, and if he ever came out of his coma – god forbid – Mrs. Greyan and I would have a lot of explaining to do.

“Boys dinner will be ready in about five minutes,” she called up, clearly preoccupied with the family’s youngest member, Charlie - a two year old kid whom I didn’t particularly dislike for some reason.

I began to come back into reality when I noticed Samuel talking to Mr. Greyan. He was holding his hands and gazing into his eyes explaining the occurrences of the day and the week. He even went as far as telling his father about the standings of his favourite sports teams. I sat by Samuel and Mr. Greyan for about ten minutes when Theresa called us down for dinner.

“Buddy you goes on without me. I’ll catch up,” said Samuel.

I hesitated heavily – as this would mean I’d have to be alone with Theresa – and Samuel noticed, although maybe for the wrong reasons.

“Don’ worry I’mma be fine. Jus’ want some time alone with my Old Man.”

The guy thought I cared about his sentimental space. I didn’t, and I thought I spent all the years we had together, indicating that to him.

“Sure,” I said.

I’d allow him to think I cared – even slightly – about him if it meant he wouldn’t find out about me and his Mother.

I exited the room slowly, ambivalently, and even cautiously to some extent, for some reason I didn’t know. The hallway at this point was saturated with the smell of cooking meat, and the sounds of a familiar child’s crying, as well as the music of my own stomach’s orchestra of sound. Thinking about Mr. Greyan either made me hungrier, or it supressed my hunger which had just recently returned tenfold.

I took careful steps towards the stairs as to not give indication of my coming into the kitchen – or else Theresa would be able to ready herself for a speech. Talking to her was inevitable and so I decided to get it over with as at least we were alone – but then again aren’t we all.

I came down the stairs, yet I still stood in front of them, as if I could escape through their heights if this all went south.

“Mrs. Greyan.” I said.

The carpet was plush, and the walls were beautifully painted – a complete contrast to the depths of Mr. Greyan’s hearse of a room.

“Hold on Will, I’ll be right there,” she yelled over from the kitchen.

My cheeks began to burn, and my eyes watered – not on the account of crying, but instead because they were stinging as if the intensity of the ceiling lights were somehow increased. She was coming.

Before long she was standing before me, vulnerable once again, to what I was about to say.

Her feminine figure was tantalizing and the whisper of her voice even more so.

“What’s up.”

She leaned closer, embraced me, and followed with a soft kiss.

“I’m happy we got Richard out of the way,” she whispered.

About a month ago I was over to “visit,” Theresa and while we were sprawled out on the couch Mr. Greyan happened to walk in. We “terminated,” the compromise by bludgeoned him with a lamp post.

The part that disturbed me the most was that Theresa did, and that she didn’t hesitate for even a moment about what to do with the “Richard Problem.” A woman of such tiny stature hurting the love of her life was a scene that was forever imprinted into my mind, particularly the blood.

The viscous spray of red blood had been joyfully bouncing out of it’s bodily vessel upon every provocative strike with the hard edged lamp post, rendering Richard unconscious after only a single strike, and comatose after I presume four or five. The hate in Theresa’s eyes was arousing, she looked primal – as if not human – and she continued to strike her “life partner,” again and again until she was out of breath. We continued with our afternoon meetup without even cleaning up the mess.

As far as Samuel knew, his father literally drank himself into an alcoholic coma and collapsed, falling into edges and counters on his way down to the ground.

“Listen Theresa. We need to talk about what happened with him,” I responded, a little louder than I perhaps should have.

“I love you, but what happened was extremely problematic,” I continued.

Theresa looked at me without even frowning a wrinkle onto her perfect skin. She looked happy.

I didn’t love her, but it seemed like what a normal person would say in such a predicament. But then again I had no idea what a normal person was supposed to say, maybe I did love her. However, ultimately I said it to comfort her.

Instead of being shocked or disturbed she replied with a gigantic smile “I enjoyed it.”

Dinner was good and according to Samuel’s exclamations even Mr. Greyan thought it was good when Samuel brought him up some food, and a newspaper – who obviously couldn’t talk, or eat.

I was sitting beside Mrs. Greyan, in between Charlie and her, with Samuel sitting on the other side of the toddler. I attempted to touch her with my legs several times under the table, but instead of responding she brushed me off and looked into her food as if it wasn’t fulfilling enough. Perhaps she was afraid of Samuel finding out about us, but I didn’t care. Me and her together could handle anything, and in a way I wanted Samuel to find out – there was another perfect lamp post in the living room.

I began thinking about me and Theresa running away together, perhaps going to Florida or Mexico, people never bothered you down there as long as you kept to yourself. Maybe that was Cuba I was thinking of.

Suddenly the woman reached for a steak knife and without any hesitation sprung up, leaned Samuel and his chair back, and plunged the glimmering knife into his chest. She dragged up towards his neck once the knife was all the way in as if she was simply carving a pumpkin. A trick and a treat.

I was surprised – for a lack of a better word.

She looked over at me with eyes that were not familiar to me. I doubt those eyes would’ve been familiar to any person in the world. Her pupils were dilated to absurd extents and blood vessels were broken as if she was under a correspondingly absurd amount of stress. Theresa licked her lips, and without wasting another second lunged face first into Samuel’s stomach biting and eviscerating an uncountable amount of organs, arteries and muscles on the way in.

I heard her bite something – a sound that reminded me of snapping a branch or stick in half – and without the use of her hands she ripped Samuel’s intestines out like a hammerhead shark frenzying over freshly dumped chum.

I dropped my knife and fork – perhaps dropping the knife wasn’t such a smart idea – and the warm brussel sprouts I had been chewing dropped out of my mouth in a mushy, wet paste.

“There goes my meal,” I had thought to myself.

I stood for a moment watching this animal like creature – which I had maybe loved – eating, literally eating her own child.

I couldn’t move. I wasn’t afraid of her, but I was afraid of what she was going to do next as I cautiously looked over at Charlie –whom was even aware of an irregularity in his dinner time schedule.

I couldn’t understand why Theresa was doing this, and I began to run towards the front door as I mouthed “I’m sorry,” to Charlie as if it was a cue for him to start crying. I couldn’t save him, I wasn’t even sure if I could save myself.

My mind was racing – even moreso than my legs were – and my face was burning as if I had been the recipient of an acidic facial wash.

The door was bolted shut.

I realized I was fucked, when I heard a gun-shot ring out from the confinements of the kitchen.

Why would she endanger herself by eating the most capable of self-defense and shooting the most vulnerable? I didn’t understand.

I sat in the dark corner beside the front door, and looked around for anything I could potentially use to kill myself with. It’d be better than the fate that awaited me – like the fate that awaited by Samuel. Besides it seemed like what a normal person would do. My eyes quickly scanned over the objects that were laying in the vicinity. A vase, some shoes, car keys, and a gun. I joked to myself about there being a gun there, and I let out a loud chuckle.

I decided I wasn’t too enthusiastic about slitting my wrists, and so I sat back and accepted what was about to happen.

I heard familiar footsteps. However they sounded different, as if they were staggered. The delicate sounds of a woman whom I maybe-loved walked towards me. Theresa emerged into the foyer – I was surprised a Hick Family like the Greyan’s even had a foyer – and stopped.

Her blouse and slim fitting pants that were once upon a time blue and grey, had now turned red and brown – undoubtedly by the paints of Samuel’s bodily fluids.

I kept my eyes open. Despite my vulnerability I needed to know what was happening – as if knowing what was happening would fuel my ambition to live.

However, wanting to live at this point was superfluous. I was dead regardless.

A deep low groan – almost like a growl – slipped out of the side of Mrs. Greyan’s bloodily shaped grin. She paused and growled again, and again, and again as if she was trying to intimidate me out of my clearly brilliant hiding spot – which was not a hiding spot at all, as opposed to me simply leaning against a corner of the dark foyer’s wall.

She approached me, slowly. Another growl. Another step. She continued to follow this protocol until she was right in front of the door, at which point she turned towards the stairs.

She took a step up, and another, and another until I couldn’t see the misleading silhouette of her anymore. She disappeared and before I could wonder what she was doing upstairs I remembered the events of the dinner as if they were long repressed memories. The events of the evening unfolded and flooded my mind as I finally got a chance to rationalize what had just happened. I slowly got up and made my way over to the kitchen to check on Charlie – as if a toddler could survive a shotgun at point blank – I had to anyways as the front door was bolted shut.

Charlie sat in his booster seat motionless, and from behind he looked perfectly fine. It was only when I began to circle around the table when I saw what had become of his body. He was dead and mangled, lifeless and decapitated. Yet the image I saw of him still resonated with me. That was still Charlie in essence. He reminded me of a pencil full of lead – in more ways than one.

His body was completely ripped apart, yet it seemed as if he was bite-free aside from his ear. It looked as if someone had taken a bite out of it. Mrs. Greyan needed a snack for the road I assumed.

The shotgun shells littered the floor beneath me as well as a combination of beef stew, and Samuel stew.

Without looking away from him I quietly opened the window behind me, and took one step out. With the unfortunate mishaps of the night I wholeheartedly expected the window to shut on me, and cut me in half as if I wasn’t allowed to survive what I just witnessed. It didn’t.

I walked away from the house, still staring through the window; staring into the kitchen and as I walked farther and farther towards the night sky, down the muddy field, the light of the Greyan Family’s kitchen began to subside. I wasn’t going towards the light, I was running away from it.

About twenty minutes later I sat down for a moment and leaned against an isolated hay bale – I had been doing a lot of leaning. My hands were filthy for a reason that I wasn’t sure of. I held them up to inspect them, and I began to notice something peculiar.

My hands didn’t shake, not even a slight bit.

Part Two – August 6th, 2000

“The silenced sniper round penetrated his skull as neatly as a camel would thread the eye of a needle. The time between the shot and the impact counted the man’s remaining seconds of life down as a child counts the timing between thunder and lightning.

His body collapsed almost instantaneously leaving only a blood splatter on the wall behind.

“Hit,” whispered Bat over the com-system, “he ain’t gettin’ home for dinner.”

“He has a family just like we do, show some respect.”

“Had,” retorted Bat.

I looked over at him while still lying in the tall brush. Even through our camouflaged facemasks he knew his boundaries.

“Sir,” he corrected himself.

I cringed.

“Cut around the sides of that most western barn and scout for other patrols, and don’t engage,” I whispered.

Bat shook his head his and turned around to begin his recon, but I stopped him before he could take off. I grabbed his arm, and flipped the safety on his sniper rifle on.

“Do not engage,” I repeated.

“I heard you Jet.”

I turned away to begin recon of my own, and as I peered back over my shoulder he was already gone. He must’ve been moving perfectly camouflaged as I couldn’t see him, nor could I see any unnatural movements in the environment that potentially would’ve given him away.

Bat was still just an impulsive trigger-happy child, yet he was still a NAVY SEAL Stealth Sniper and I trusted him with my life – as he did with me.

I began to slither through the grass dragging my legs with my upper body movements as if they were broken.

“Jet do you read me,” Bat whispered over the com.

“I got you, what do you see?”

“I see a whole fuckload of people is what I see.”

“Give me a count,” I replied.

“At least eighty or ninety. More than half armed with automatics and a few Humvees in the back.”

“We’re splitting up. It’s too dangerous for us to meet up. Meet me at Waypoint AZFB and don’t engage,” I ordered, “take detour 431.”

“Understood. That bastard isn’t gonna know what hit ‘em. Be safe, see you in twenty buddy,” he responded.

Me and Bat were the only ones that were sent on the mission at that point. We were to discretely “decommission,” the leader of an African cult that had been causing trouble globally. His name was Grugan a pasty white bastard who enjoyed causing shit all over the world for no apparent reason. Just a week before I got shipped out that shithead ordered fifty of his men to execute and raze an entire local village because they didn’t follow his cause. Typically I’m only sent to take out extremely dangerous persons so this was the first cult leader on my kill list. The only reason he was even in my crosshairs was because he had about three thousand soldiers under him that were well armed, and well-fucked in the head.

I continued my slithering approach to the hill Bat was supposed to meet me at, yet like usual he was late. I decided not to radio him as I wasn’t sure what sort of situation he was in, at that point a simple radio transmission could’ve gotten him killed.

I laid down flat beside the base of a tree to distort my human-like silhouette and pulled my rifle from my back. I set out my rifle’s bipod, adjusted the scope in accommodation for wind speed, elevation, temperature and a variety of other simply annoying factors and I waited, like my kind was designed to.

Seconds passed, and eventually minutes which later turned into a full hour that I didn’t have contact with Bat for.

Just as I was about to radio him I saw a man being dragged into the middle of the cluster of farm buildings. He was clearly hysterical and had a bag over his head; wrists slit with what appeared to be nails driven into various parts of his forearms. Beaten to the point of which a normal man would’ve died, he was thrown into a chair that was placed directly ahead of me at maybe two-thousand metres.

My heart skipped a beat before my mind could recognize Bat’s round face through my rifle’s scope.

“Fuck.”

I was about to radio base for air support and a med-evac when the grizzly looking man holding Bat hostage spoke into my ear. He had taken his radio.

“I have your friend.”

His accent was thick, and his voice deep, a perfect example of what a Russian terrorist would sound like.

I paused, and took a deep breath. I blinked simultaneously as to rid my mind of the images I had of killing him with my bare hands.

“Don’t make me repeat myself American.”

“What do you want,” I replied.

“I want you.”

“Come get me.”

“Why? I have your friend, and if you American Navy SEALs are as close as they say you are, you won’t leave him behind,” he laughed.

He was right. We were more than soldiers, we were brothers that bled, cried, and laughed together. We were family.

I switched channels on my radio quickly.

“Come in base this is Excal 7 requiring immediate assistance, I repeat, immediate assistance is required. Come in!”

My cries for help were met with white noise, and static.

I switched back channels.

“Did you have to take another call American?”

“That was just the pizza delivery guy, he says he’s here,” I retorted.

“I am truly surprised American. You’re making jokes at a time like this.”

“Forfeit your position now, and I will spare your friend,” he said with a giant smile on his face.

“How about I put a fucking bullet between your eyes and every other one of your men.”

“Rescue this,” he said as he brought the edge of a glittering knife across Bat’s throat.

I remember the facial expression Bat had on his face. Not a single wrinkle on his skin as to indicate any form of duress, and a smile on his face that will haunt me until I catch a bullet between my own eyes.

A single tear rolled down the left side of his face, and then he closed his eyes.

Without any more provocation I squeezed the trigger on my bolt action harder than I ever have before.

A loud blast followed by an armful of recoil sent the steaming bullet whizzing towards Mr. Grizzly at speeds faster than sound. A bloody explosion of red mist was spewed in to the air like a murderous Aurora Borealis.

Almost immediately another soldier ran into my sights, I adjusted and blew his head off. Then another, and another and another.

After what seemed like seconds I realized what they were doing. They were cultists that would die for their cause, and in that particular circumstance I was an obstacle on their path to success and taking me out was their primary concern. If I shot enough of them they’d eventually be able to make an estimate on where I was hidden.

I didn’t care. The more men that I killed the angrier and angrier I became. Not only was I killing other human beings, but I was killing their families.

The biggest part of taking a man’s life is having to bear, not only your own sins, but the sins of that man that will from therein remain unconfessed.

About ten magazines later, and fifty warm corpses, Mr. Grizzly’s henchmen seemed to get their shit together as they started to fire rounds in my general direction. Typically if a sniper receives any sort of fire they’re supposed to retreat – I didn’t. I still had three magazines left and that meant I could kill fifteen more of the fuckers.

As soon as I finished reloading a snapping sound whizzed directly in front of me and as a result a cloud of dirt was blown into the air, and into my line of sight. I rolled over onto my back and held my rifle close to me on my chest.

Every reflex in my body was forcing me to roll into cover and run, in the short interval of escape I had. Instead I rolled back over and took aim.

A man was running down the farm road towards me, and for less than a second I took my finger off the trigger thinking about what I was doing. I forced the morality of the situation out of my head and I placed my finger back on the trigger only to feel a heavy metallic strike on the top of my skull. I used the momentum of the blow to aid me in rolling over, and I pulled out my knife in a fashion that was more instinctive to me than breathing was.

I squinted up into the eyes of a man who looked more frightened than menacing to me, yet I knew what I had to do. Swiftly I knocked his legs out from under him in the same motion I used to get to my knees. He was doubled over and I sank my knife into his carotid artery that produced a wet peeling noise and it entered his body. Almost instantly a geyser of blood sprung up at me and out of reaction I threw him back down.

Another rally of shots rang out from behind me, most of which hit trees and objects meters off in the distance; however a single shot hit me in the back of the shoulder which would’ve knocked any other man down to his knees. My step stuttered for a moment however I recovered, grabbed my rifle and sprung into the nearby bush onto my hands and knees.

“American.”

I heard desperate words from behind me. A man drowing in his own blood with a US Navy knife jammed into the side of his neck.

“Ameri-,” before he could finish his sentence I sent a silenced pistol shot right into his brain.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered and with that I grabbed my rifle and knife and made my way into the densely forested perimeter of the barn.

I had been walking for about ten minutes when I decided I was far enough from danger to tend to my wound. I cleaned off my knife and used the reflection of it to examine the gunshot wound I had in my back shoulder. The cartridge looked like a 7.62, and the way it was embedded into my back, right beside bone, made the round look more mangled than it actually must have been. I may had been imagining it yet experience dictated that the bullet in my back had been emitting almost a sizzling sound, like a cattle to the brand. The searing pain was making me dizzy yet I knew the shock of the shot would be even worse if I didn’t fish it out. In one sense a bullet inflicts pain upon you, yet I found it ironic as well how the heat of a gunshot also treats your internal wounds. Internal wounds.

While holding the knife perfectly still I reached back with my other hand and I began to dig and claw the sharp metal out from of my flesh. The pain was excruciating yet I was able to grit my teeth and bare the pain without making a sound.

The bullet popped out of my shoulder from the encouragement of my prying fingers. As it slid out it sounded like the unsheathing of a wet sword.

I took a deep breath and without wasting another second I quickly began to break a bullet in half with my multi-tool. The black gunpowder spilled out onto my fingers, and with the black powder coating my fingers I poured some as accurately as I could onto the bullet’s entry wound.

I took another deep breath and I flicked open my metal lighter, but I remembered what I was about to do as I closed it again.

I took my camouflaged scarf off and I bit down hard on it, yet I kept my knife-mirror still and steady. I needed to see what I was doing, the skin had to melt together properly.

Without any hesitation I flicked open the lighter once more and held it to the gunpowder, which resulted in a small puff of smoke and a searing pain unlike anything someone could imagine. I fought the shakiness of my hand and kept the knife still until the flame stopped and the skin was melted sufficiently. Had this been my first cauterization I would’ve been vocalizing my agony, but I was a veteran to melting bullet wounds shut.

I finally pulled the moist scarf out of my mouth with had a combination of blood and saliva on it. I had been biting so hard down on the rag that my jaw was practically numb at that point.

I slipped my flask of whiskey out from my tac-vest and took a gulp lasting about fifteen seconds, leaving only enough to douse my wound clean.

I picked up my rifle and continued down the now dark, forested trail. According to Bat’s count there was upwards of a hundred men down at the farm, and I took about fifty-one of them out. That left forty-nine more able bodies willing to track me down at most, and they’d be willing to torture me until I gave them what they needed. Information.

I wasn’t afraid of the interrogation as much as I was afraid of death. My job was to stay alive and I was damn good at it, if I wasn’t I would’ve died at least a couple dozen times by that point.

Anyone can dedicate decades towards learning everything it is to be a SEAL, except for what it’s like for a SEAL to be a SEAL. Learning how to work a precision rifle, or kill someone with your bare hands is the easy part; things get difficult when you need to pull the trigger, and by that I don’t mean the trigger on your rifle.”

We all sat around the campfire in complete silence letting the crackling and sizzling of the fire eat away at the quiet.

I finally managed to squeeze out the question that we all had to be thinking “so did you make it back?”

Jet looked at me confused.

“Obviously I made it out, I’m alive aren’t I?”

“C’mon Will. Think before you speak,” teased Kelly as she smiled at me.

“I meant to the military base you guys were stationed at. Or did you desert? There has to be a reason why the government’s after you, after all of us.”

“That is quite the question isn’t it,” Chalmers interjected.

Until that point he had been completely silent either appreciating the ordeals that Jet had gone through or using Jet’s story to reminisce upon his own trials.

“Are you alive just the same way that we all are?” Chalmers questioned.

“Come again?”

“I for one cannot ascertain whether I am alive or not.”

“You’re alive because you’re breathing. Because you’re talking to us right now,” I suggested.

“As unnecessarily metaphysical as it may sound, does that justify being alive?” he retorted.

“Look around. We’ve all been through enough problems to kill a man, and we’re living in mud, disease and all while on the run from these zombies.”

“And to top it off the government’s after us as well,” I suggested, looking at Jet.

“I can leave if you want Will, but then who’s going to be there to save your hide?”

“The bottom line is what we’re doing is not living. We’re surviving,” Chalmers concluded.

“Surviving implies living doesn’t it?” questioned Rose.

Chalmers seemed surprised hearing such adversarial argument coming out of the mouth of the unnecessarily passive investment banker.

“It doesn’t imply living, it implies struggling to live. How can we enjoy the higher self-actualizing esteems of life if we can barely hold onto a can of beans to eat?”

“That’s enough questions for the night. Chalmers is going to have you all asking whether you’re living in the Matrix soon enough if this keeps up,” Jet interrupted.

“Go to sleep we need to make five kilometers tomorrow.”

“Good night everyone,” Kelly spoke.

“Good night,” followed Rose.

“Night,” Chalmers said as he surrendered his philosophical discussion.

The way everyone obeyed Jet was interesting to say the least.

I got up off of my tree-stump and sat down on the plastic tarp in between Jet and Kelly. I took off my shirt, laid it behind my head and closed my eyes. I listened to the crackling of the fire and the sound of the running river off in the distance. I listened to the high pitched cries of the animals in the forest, and to the buzz of the mosquitos escaping the tyranny of the thick stack of campfire smoke.

Just as I felt myself succumbing to the sleep that I had been avoiding I heard a yell followed by a cry for help.

Calmly I sat up, rubbed my eyes and buried my face into my hands as I looked beside me at Jet. Ever since I started traveling with the group I had been subject to Jet’s night-terrors which served as an alarm clock of sorts to me.

I had promised myself not to interfere with his state unless it spanned more than a few minutes, I didn’t want him to accidentally kill me in his sleep.

“Jet. Jet wake up,” I nudged him.

“Jet-,” before I could finish my second attempt of waking him up his eyes darted open and within a second I was on my back with his knee on my throat.

“Jet it’s me,” I calmly whispered.

The look on his eyes was aggressive and vengeful however it was soon followed by a moment of clarity as he blinked and released me from his grasps.